


Friends Like These

by ms_soma



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-05
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 11:24:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ms_soma/pseuds/ms_soma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and his friend Stuart are catching up with their old flatmate from their uni days. Some people change. Some people stay the same. Some people fall in love with Consulting Detectives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friends Like These

“Sherlock, are we doing anything Friday night?” John called out from his seat on the couch. Sherlock was in the kitchen mixing something in vials. John hoped it wouldn’t explode again. Tweezing glass out of Sherlock’s skin wasn’t his favourite activity. “An old flatmate from uni will be in London and wants to catch up with me and Stuart. I haven’t seen him since before I went to Afghanistan, maybe even before that.”

“If you want to go out with people who are not me, you certainly do not need my approval,” Sherlock said and John rolled his eyes. “Unless you wish for me to accompany you, and unless Stuart’s wife will be there—“

“We’ve talked about this,” John interrupted before Sherlock could start gushing about the virtues of his mate’s medical research scientist wife. Again. “Couples are allowed to do separate activities, but they should inform the other in case they are going to miss something in the process. Like a sibling’s birthday or an anniversary dinner.”

“It was one dinner, one time.”

John rose from the couch and walked toward the kitchen so he could actually see him. “Sherlock—”

“Fine.” Sherlock huffed and turned around to face him, gloves to his elbows and goggles over his eyes. He looked ridiculous, and god, was that purple stuff in the vial bubbling? Christ, John had only just managed to scrub the black goo from the tile last week.

“In that case, John, my old violin tutor is in town with the New York Philharmonic. She has set aside a ticket for the Friday night performance and hopes to go to her nephew’s bar afterwards for a drink. Would you mind if I took her up on her offer?”

John smirked. “You’ve already said yes, haven’t you?”

“Inconsequential. One can change their mind. Even if one does not wish to.”

“Luckily for you I have no knowledge of any prior engagements that night.”

Sherlock stared at him, grey eyes scanning his facial features. “You’re disappointed I haven’t asked you to come along.” 

It wasn’t a question. Damn Sherlock and his annoying propensity to take biological cues as a deduction method. “Well—“

He turned back to his experiment. “If I were to ask, you would say yes due to some archaic romantic theory that we should take interest in each other’s passions.”

“There is nothing wrong with wanting to be in your company when you are enjoying something. I like seeing you happy, you know.”

“Very well then. They are playing a tribute to Vivaldi, so you will need to clear your evening. I imagine the performance will go for at least three hours.”

John paled. “Three hours?”

“And Violet has expressed an interest in meeting you so I am sure she will be able to procure an additional ticket. I shall send her a text as soon as I’ve finished this part of the experiment.”

John cleared his throat. “As much as I’d love to go, I’ve got plans with some mates on Friday night.”

“I thought as much,” Sherlock said, holding the vial up to the light and shaking it. The bubbles were rising toward the rubber stopper at an alarming rate. “Dammit.”

John sighed as the glass cracked and foaming purple liquid exploded across the table.

“Stay still. I’ll get the tweezers.”

***

_Mr Foxx_ was a bit more of an upscale joint than John was used to. It was mostly filled with what looked to be the investment banker crowd, in their expensive suits drinking their fine wine. John was in a pair of his better jeans and one of his nicer jumpers, a blue cashmere that Sherlock had given him last Christmas, but he still felt about ten shades of underdressed.

“This place is full of knobs,” Stuart muttered under his breath as Luke went to get another round of some sort of micro-brewed twat drink masquerading as beer. John raised his eyebrows in agreement. Because, well, in the ten-odd years it had been since he’d seen him, Luke had turned into a bit of a knob, so it wasn’t too much of a surprise that he’d arranged to meet there. “And as a doctor I am well qualified to diagnose knob-ness when I see it. I’ve been to enough bloody GP conferences, after all.”

“Was he always like this?” John asked, nodding his head in the direction of their old flatmate from their uni days. The three of them were thick as thieves for years, the amount of shit they used to pull. But then came medical school, then the army, then Sherlock. It felt like a different world altogether.

“Maybe. He was always good for a laugh, though. Doesn’t seem to have changed much since then.”

“We have,” John said, suddenly feeling very grateful that of all the ways their lives could have taken them, it was Stuart who he went to med school with, and Stuart who stayed in London. They didn’t see each other as often as they should. Between Stuart’s hours at the hospital and John’s unpredictable schedule with Sherlock, their stars rarely aligned. But when they did it was fantastic, and even better, Sherlock had become endlessly fascinated with his wife and her medical research. They’d been out to dinner a few times, then back to their flat so Sherlock could show off some of his experiments, or so they could play a game of cards or dominos. “Have we become boring?”

“In the way that we’re not out getting pissed every Friday night and waking up in a pool of our own vomit anymore? That kind of boring?”

“When you put it like that—“

“There’s a reason God gave us heartburn and hangovers, John. Besides, what you and Sherlock get up to on a regular basis, you call that boring?”

John’s face reddened at the thought of what they actually did get up to, in the sheets and out of them. “Hardly.”

“Exactly.”

A tray containing three bottles of beer and three shots of something that looked suspiciously like what was in John’s sink the other day suddenly appeared on the table they were sitting around.

“Right, you lot,” Luke started, grinning widely, colour high on his cheekbones. He must have had a couple of shots at the bar. “Just like old times.”

John picked up the shot glass and twirled it in his fingers. Black. Medicinal. “Don’t tell me—”

“Sambucca. Live a little, boys. Come on then, down the hatch.”

At the taste, John’s mind instantly rewound twenty years. Memories of cold tile under knees, head in the toilet, aniseed coming out his pores.

“This is why we never see each other anymore,” John said as he grimaced.

“Don’t be a dick,” Luke laughed. “Your lives are right boring without me. And you thought being a fancy pants doctor would be more glamorous than the banking industry.”

“It isn’t?” Stuart asked, grinning over at John. “John went to war.”

“I guess being shot doesn’t sound very exciting,” he replied.

“But did you get an all expenses paid trip to Spain for a conference? Then sent to London for some networking?”

“We live in London, would be kind of pointless sending us there,” Stuart said, matter of fact as always, and Luke responded in a booming laugh, patting him on the back.

“You always were a literal one, weren’t you?”

“I got an all expenses paid trip to Afghanistan?” John threw in.

“What’s it like there, anyway?”

“Sandy. Hot. Lovely country, though. Wouldn’t be a bad place to visit if it hadn’t been decimated by war.”

“Bet the scenery wasn’t quite as nice as San Sebastian, right, boys?” Luke said, the nudge-nudge wink-wink implied. And while John could still appreciate the female form in a nice bikini, it hadn’t really appealed for a few years. Not that Luke would be aware of that. It’s not like John had changed his Facebook relationship status to _in love with a mad genius_ or anything. And it’s not as if Luke had allowed the conversation to steer away from his life much.

“Has to be a sight better than Dublin, that’s for sure,” Stuart said, ducking the hand Luke reached over to whack the back of his head with.

“Dublin’s where it’s all happening.”

“Obviously.”

“There’s no point in having a big dick if you don’t know what to do with it. You live in London yet you never take advantage of it.”

Stuart furrowed his brow. “Are you saying Dublin is a small dick?”

“No, he’s inferring we have big dicks and his is miniscule. I think?” John laughed. Ah, dick jokes. Just like old times.

“Don’t you start, Mr Army Man. At least Mr Dullsville over there,” he pointed at Stuart, “is so far under the thumb you can see his missus’ fingerprints on his forehead. You always had the girls hanging off you at uni, what’s your excuse?”

“Different priorities.” John shrugged, taking another sip of his beer. “Too old for all that now, aren’t we, lads?”

“Too old? You’re only as young as the woman you feel. Right, John?”

“So you’re feeling 42, then?” Stuart asked Luke.

Luke pouted. “I remember when you guys were fun.”

“Getting blind drunk, almost getting arrested six times, waking up on the floor of random people’s houses.” Stuart sighed.

“Can’t say I miss it too horribly,” John said.

“Speaking of things you can’t miss.” Luke nodded toward something that was behind John. “Christ, you can’t go anywhere these days, can you?”

John followed his line of sight to a couple of guys holding hands.

Stuart shook his head. “Oh yes, let’s all be wary of the homosexuals. How dare they flaunt their lifestyle at us by touching palms.” 

“So the couple two feet from them practically shagging on the table are fine, but the couple just standing there minding their own business are flaunting it? Welcome to 2012, Luke. Must be hard seeing that from all the way back in 1987.” John was a patient man, he was dating Sherlock Holmes, after all. But Luke calling him boring all night and then making comments like that was getting increasingly tiresome.

“Jesus Christ, it’s not like I’m calling you two benders.”

Stuart shot John a look, challenging him to say what he was wanting to say. _Go on, John, stick it to him. Rock the boat_. And fuck it, why not.

“Bender, homo, gay, fag, you can call me whatever you like. At the end of the day, I’m getting laid by the most brilliant man in Britain on a very regular basis while you’re still begging your wife every other Saturday.”

“What the fuck are you on about?”

John heard a familiar deep voice behind him. “Here, let me demonstrate.”

A pair of hands turned John on his barstool before settling under his chin to tilt his head up. John’s “What are you doing here?” was muffled by a set of lips on his own, gentle and coaxing. It only lasted a second or two, but it was enough to light a fire in the pit of his stomach.

John looked into Sherlock’s eyes, the colour popping brilliantly from the hue of his charcoal shirt. They were narrowed in an inquisitive way, and the next thing John knew Sherlock was back on him, cradling John’s face with his hands, licking into his mouth like he was experimenting, trying to make a discovery. John felt an involuntary groan radiate from his throat and thought _sod it_. He was just pissed off enough at Luke and just tipsy enough on the alcohol that he didn’t care he was putting on a show. All that he cared about was that he currently had his tongue down the throat of the most handsome man in the room.

They eventually broke apart.

“You taste like licorice.” Sherlock looked at him, eyebrows furrowed and licking his lips. “You don’t like licorice.”

“Taste aversion from years of throwing up this.” John reached toward the table to pick up the shot glass. Sherlock gave it a cautionary sniff. “What are you doing here?”

“I was going to ask the same of you,” he said, placing the glass back on the table. “This is Violet’s nephew’s bar.”

It was only then that John noticed the petite lady standing behind Sherlock. She looked to be not that much older than John, svelte figure and dark hair tied back in a bun. John stood from his stool and wrapped an arm around his boyfriend.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, reaching out his free hand. “I’m being rude. You must be Violet.”

“And you must be the famous Dr John Watson.”

“Not too sure about the famous part, but that is my name.”

“Well, I hear a lot about you.”

“I hear you’re the person responsible for the amazing music that comes from these fingers.”

Violet smiled. “When he would actually listen to me rather than presume he knew better.”

“Oh, he did that to you too?” 

“I listen,” Sherlock protested. “I’m just capable of being able to quickly filter what is incorrect.”

John shared a knowing look with Violet. “How did the gig go tonight then?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The _gig_ as you so eloquently put it, was marvellous. The string section was in perfect pitch and tempo and really held up the entire performance. The brass section, however, could have used some extensive coaching. You would have been bored to tears, John.”

“Sherlock says you’re not much of a fan?”

“I like it when he plays, but I don’t know if I could sit through three hours of it. No offense.”

“None taken. Now do you mind if I squire your man away for a drink? I’m afraid my nephew will be out from behind the bar before too long to whisk me to my brother’s house for the night, and Sherlock and I have so much to catch up on.”

“Yes, of course.” John slowly untangled himself from Sherlock. “Come and see me before you go, I might catch a cab home with you.”

Sherlock nodded, then turned back to whisper in his ear. “Don’t have any more to drink after your next one.”

He bristled. Sherlock bossed him around in many aspects of his life; he was not going to take charge on his drinking habits. “Why is that then?”

“Because you have the flushed look you normally get when you’re between your fourth and fifth beers, when you start to feel carefree and amorous. I wish to benefit from the situation. Beer number five will mean I get shagged into the mattress as soon as we get home. Beer number six will result in you falling asleep in the cab on the way home, and ultimately, my disappointment.”

John swallowed and edged closer to him, hooking a finger through his belt loops. “Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”

“See, amorous. Go back to your friends, John.” And with that, Sherlock was off to a table at the other side of the room, leaving John to retake his seat and face a confused looking Luke and a faintly amused Stuart.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Oh sorry, I should have introduced you,” John said, taking a swig from what would be his second-last beer. “That was Sherlock.”

“And the kissing thing, was that just for my benefit?”

“No, no, that was simply good timing. That is how we usually greet each other.” John was feeling smugly pleased with himself.

“You knew about this?” Luke asked Stuart. 

Stuart just shrugged. “They’ve had me and Julia around before.”

Luke looked dumbstruck. “So all those times at uni when I was walking around in just my pants, you were checking me out?”

“Get over yourself, you wanker. Like I’d be lusting after your rank arse.”

“But you lust after arse, though?”

“Only Sherlock’s.” John tried to keep the mood light. “In my defense, it is lovely.”

“And how long have you been taking it up the—“

“Luke!” Stuart warned.

“What? One of my best mates from uni is a fucking queer. You thought I wouldn’t have questions?”

“I’d be more inclined to answer them if you’d stop being such a homophobic prick about it,” John said.

Silence descended over the table.

“Okay. Alright. I’m sorry. That was rude of me.”

John sobered. “It’s okay, I get that it’s unexpected.”

“I was being an arsehole. I’ll stop.”

“Appreciated.”

“So.” Luke paused and took a swig of beer. “He give good head, then? Mouth like that.”

“Luke—“ Stuart groaned but Luke just laughed. Just like that, the tension was cut, but the ease of their previous conversations didn’t seem to return. Or maybe that was just John.

“Fine. Did I tell you lads about a buck’s party at Ibiza I went to last month?”

***

An hour later Sherlock joined them back at their table. 

“Violet’s off, so I’m going to head home.”

“Wait, Sherlock. Stay while I finish this drink and I’ll come with you.” After the comments made since his arrival, John wasn’t sure if he should introduce Sherlock to his former flatmate. But Luke was looking uncomfortable in Sherlock’s presence and John was feeling antagonistic. “This is Luke. You remember Stuart, of course.”

He could tell that Sherlock was putting on his best _play nice_ face as he shook their hands. Sherlock knew Stuart, Sherlock liked Stuart, but it always took him a while to warm up to new people. And Luke was nothing like one of Sherlock’s people.

“What do you do, Sherlock, is it?” Luke asked, smirking around the neck of his beer bottle. Even if Luke was actually able to achieve something resembling subtlety, Sherlock would still be able to see right through him.

Just as John thought, that was exactly what Sherlock was doing. He could tell by the way his eyes darted over different parts of Luke, taking him in. “I’m a Consulting Detective.”

“What’s that then? You tell people how to investigate things?”

“Hardly. I get called into tricky cases and deduce things the police would normally miss.”

“So you’re a cop?”

“No. My methods are too unorthodox for the constabulary.”

John could tell Luke was trying hard not to show his mirth.

“Really?” he challenged. “Give me an example.”

“Luke—“ John warned.

“No, John,” Sherlock interrupted. “Your friend here wishes to challenge me in front of you, wanting to make me look a fool in some vain attempt to make you realise what a mistake you’ve made by being with me.”

“He’s brilliant at it, really,” Stuart started, trying to diffuse the tension. “He and Julia—“

“Yes, I meant to ask, how is Julia going with her current series of tests?” Sherlock asked, momentarily distracted. “Is she still working on the pigs ears or has she moved onto the rats?”

“Uh, rats, I believe.”

“Do you think she’ll be able to get me clearance to work with her again? She had the most amazing set of chemicals to test—“

“That poor lab,” John shook his head, smiling fondly.

“Jesus, John.” Luke shook his head. “The conversations at your dinner table must be _enthralling_.”

Sherlock stopped midsentence to turn to Luke.

“Am I boring you? I’m sorry. Please, let’s continue talking about the forty-year-old man who parties at resorts with people more than half his age. Because that is much more interesting.”

Luke’s mouth fell open like he wasn’t used to being spoken at like that. It was fun to see. “Seriously, John? This is what you’re tied down to? I know some gay guys I could hook you up with that are much more your speed. A lot less Scrabble and a lot more social interaction. Remember those days?”

“Really? That’s your conclusion? John is hardly going to take relationship advice from an adulterer,” Sherlock said, taking a sip of his wine.

John looked from Sherlock to Luke. “You’re cheating on Jenny?”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous!” Luke’s face was red with fury, but John had investigated enough crimes with Sherlock to detect the physical signs of guilt.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please, you make it so obvious. You have the imprint of a ring on your wedding finger, which means you walked in here wearing it but have since slipped it off. Possibly so the blonde you’ve been making eyes at and tapping your watch to all night doesn’t see it. She knows you’re married, but you don’t want to flaunt it in front of her. You’ve been in some warmer climate over the past few weeks, you have a tan line when your watch slips down. However there is no tan line where your wedding ring should sit so it’s obvious you haven’t been wearing it, very likely because you haven’t wanted people to know that you are, in fact, married.”

“You’ve got two kids,” John said. “She’s sitting at home looking after the boys while you gallivant about shagging everything in sight?”

“Like you don’t get about. I remember your reputation.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Because he’d be able to tell by the way you cut your fingernails or something?”

John had had enough.

“Because I’m in love with him and I don’t need to be with anybody else. He’s brilliant and he’s fascinating and he’s loyal and he satisfies me in every aspect you can imagine, and even the ones you don’t want to.” John stood up from his barstool. “So you can have your expensive suits, your fancy conferences, your overpriced beers, and your casual sex. I’m happy in my jeans and jumpers living in a slightly chaotic flat with one of the most brilliantly chaotic blokes in London. If that makes me boring, then I’ll be the happiest man to have ever died from boredom.” He grabbed his jacket. “Coming, Sherlock?”

Sherlock downed the last of his wine and got up to follow.

“Stuart, we must have you and your wife over soon. I’ve been breeding these cultures that I need her opin—“

“Sherlock!” John shouted from the door.

“I shall send her a text,” he told him, rushing to the door to exit with John.

In the cab heading back to Baker Street, Sherlock reached over and grabbed John’s hand.

“Sorry about that in there,” he said, running his thumb gently across John’s knuckles.

“Why are you apologising?”

“I know you don’t like it when I deduce your friends’ lives.”

John snorted. “He’s hardly a friend. Making digs at us all night about how his life is so much better than ours. He deserved it and I’m glad I know what kind of person he is.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I have better things to do than waste energy on trying to preserve a friendship out of a sense of obligation.”

A few beats passed.

“I liked those things you said about me,” Sherlock said.

John smiled and squeezed his hand tighter. “They’re true. You’re brilliant.”

“And you’re one of the few people in the world who are endlessly fascinating. No one who actually knows you could ever accuse you of being boring.”

John looked across at possibly the most infuriating and gorgeous man in London. Heat crawled up from his toes to his belly and the all too common urge to kiss the man senseless lighted his nerves.

“Is it boringly cliché to snog your boyfriend in the back of a cab?”

“Exceedingly.”

“Then lucky I’m the dullest man in the world,” John said, inching closer until their lips met.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the lovely [ elless](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elless/pseuds/elless) for the beta!


End file.
